


Wish I Was Your Boy

by abaddxns



Series: Harringrove for Australia [3]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alpha Steve Harrington, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Explicit Sexual Content, Harringrove for Australia (Stranger Things), Hopeful Ending, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Multiple Orgasms, Omega Billy Hargrove, Other: See Story Notes, Overstimulation, POV Billy Hargrove, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Season/Series 03, alternate version
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:28:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24766198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abaddxns/pseuds/abaddxns
Summary: Billy finds himself in an unexpected and overwhelming predicament. Luckily Steve is there to answer to his call -- quite literally.[as prompted by barbeara101 for HfA, who asked for a post season three heat fic, featuring omega!Billy and alpha!Steve, wherein Billy, now living with Hop as Neil was the possessed one instead, has his first heat since his... actual first heat.]
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Series: Harringrove for Australia [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1626640
Comments: 19
Kudos: 203
Collections: harringrove for Australia





	1. Version One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [barbeara101](https://archiveofourown.org/users/barbeara101/gifts).



> hello this took me far too long because quarantine has been a real bitch to my ability to focus on literally anything and everything so it's been a really frustrating time trying to be productive. and now i'm going back to work - far too early but also temporarily - so i wanted to at least finish one thing before i'm truly back in hell.
> 
> for the story note as tagged above: this fic features an alternate version! the original version i wrote portrays certain a/b/o dynamics as i favor writing them now, but as that wasn't quite up the prompter's alley, i wrote two versions (well more like edited my original draft accordingly)! the first chapter is the adjusted version while chapter two is the original. 
> 
> that means you are free to pick your adventure (if you want). if you want some more cis-coded guys ft. some nice dong in butt action, go with chapter one, but if you're more a "queer-coded" take on male omegas person, or you just favor reading about some puss lovin' now and then, chapter two is for you! (please be wary of a few language choices in chapter two though; they're used very sparingly but jsyk!)
> 
> title pretty much straight from the 1975 song, because i'm not good at naming things and it fit The Vibe~
> 
> hope you enjoy!

It’s not supposed to be this hot.

Late September has leaves burning and falling, grass yellowing, chilling winds creeping through cracked doors under the fall of darkness. Sunshine loses its warmth behind cloud cover and early nightfall.

So why, particularly at two in the afternoon, is Billy’s sweating out a fever? Perspiring on the spare twin size in the guest room - Hopper’s latest renovation project for the cabin and Billy’s current living space - drenching the borrowed sheets? Why do his muscles and bones twitch in pain and his thoughts twist and weave themselves into knots?

Because after waking up supposedly consumed by newfound allergies to convince himself that these seasonal allergies were a actually cold and that this _cold_ was actually the _flu_ and then _maybe_ this _flu_ was some random allergic reaction just from having been around fleshy interdimensional monsters and after nearly sucked into a portal of pressurized lightning — the realization smacks him sideways.

He’s in heat.

With all the blockers he’s been on, all the fillers and synthetic god-knows-what now slowly being flushed from his system, Billy hasn’t had a heat in _years_. Since his first, undeniably. Can’t tell if it’s just worse than he remembers or it was just this bad before. He’s already restless, dripping just from rubbing his thighs together, trying to will the wantaway if he can’t fuck it out of himself before the haze fully sets in. 

In his newfound internalized panic, he knows he can’t just ignore this either. He’ll slip really bad if he tries to fight it off, and then it’ll be worse than the persistent ache of _not enough_. Your body trying to quash it’s own raging fever and influxing hormones by shutting down -- he’s never experienced that and he doesn’t _want_ to.

Still -- he’s more scared of this whole mess than he wants to be, or that he’ll openly admit to. This _is_ a totally natural, common occurrence, but it’s only _his_ second heat and if his hazy memory serves him right, it was unbearablehaving to suffer through it alone the first time.

Last time he was only fourteen. He’d spent three days locked up in his bedroom with the fan on, the windows open, aching for some kind of relief from the burning fever and emptiness between his legs. Found no comfort in the hastily made nest of borrowed living room pillows and flannel sheets, or any real pleasure in rutting hopelessly against the said pillows, the mattress, or his own fingers.

But Billy’s not a quitter. He’s not going to be compliant and let this get the best of him. 

He kicks all the extra blankets to the end of the bed and stretches out on his back. Kicks his sleep pants the rest of the way off, tangling them with the sheets, and goes straight for his dick. It stands rigidly, thick and uncut and already leaking pearls at the tip. He doesn’t tease himself or warm up -- he starts off with a tight grip and unrelenting pace.

The orgasm hits him quickly, has him choking on an inhale, spilling into his fist and onto his stomach, but it does nothing to curb the desire. He doesn’t soften the slightest. He still aches deep inside and drips between his cheeks. 

Billy tries to work his way through the aftershocks, frustrated as he drags another hand down his sweaty torso. Two blunt fingers brush past his balls and sink in where he’s hot and tight and wet. There’s no finesse to his movements -- he just needs to _come_.

He barely presses into his spot and the next orgasm hits, easy as flipping a switch. More mess on his skin. It’s just another hiccup of relief.

The real solution to his problem would be finding someone to come over and help him through this. Someone that can pin him down on his stomach so his knees dig into the wet spots he’s already left on the threadbare sheets and choke him with the bedding while holding him down with a solid, flat palm; to fill him up with come and have him spilling out and over, heaving and crying from the unbearable overstimulation.

He clenches up at the thought alone. Teases his cockhead in tight circles while he keeps his fingers crooked inside of himself.

It’s been a long time since he got fucked. His old hook-ups, the thick-headed believers of his old public charade -- they’re not going to do it for him. Would make too big a deal about this whole thing and gawk at the fact they had s _ecret omega Billy Hargrove_ on his knees for them and pout about how they weren’t offered up his hole earlier on. Plus he’s too vulnerable, too incapacitated the farther he falls, to let just anyone see or have him like this.

If he’s going to have someone to help him through it, he’d rather pick someone he knows isn’t going to take advantage of him. It’s the smartest option in this scenario.

And like, despite the accessibility, the thought planting itself in his head for half a second before he’s so disturbed with himself he stops touching himself for a moment -- Billy’s _not_ going to fuck Hop out of desperation. Or send him out to go track someone down that’d be willing. 

Even if he wasn’t the chief of police, he wouldn’t ask that of the _one_ person that’s given him a genuine stab at redemption and actually helped him -- given him a bed and a door that doesn’t lock from the outside, doesn’t confiscate dinner because Billy’s mere _presence_ kills his appetite, is as patient as a tired grump like Hop can be.

He draws a ragged breath as he adds another finger. There’s no real relief, no tangible stretch even with three digits tightly pressed together inside.

It’s overwhelming just laying here like this -- head swimming, movements slowed, hyperfocused on stimulation alone. But he’s also far too aware of everything else at the same time, like the itch of the sheets and how his hair is sticking to his back, how still the woods are. 

Everything is contradictory. Already so much and not enough.

But.

Billy spaces for a second to play with his dick, squeezing himself at the base and sweeping over the tip, into the slit in a way that usually makes his muscles tense, and wriggles his wrist instead of fucking it in and out of his hole. He comes again, just as unsatisfying. Throws his head back into his pillow and groans, more out of frustration than pleasure.

There is _one_ person he has just enough supposed trust in that could lend him a hand - or a dick, preferably - in this dire situation. But it’s a risky gamble. More soembarrassing. If they agree to this, he’ll probably never live this down -- there’ll be leverage on him for years to come.

But he knows the prickle of heat on his skin is only going to get worse, each orgasm born of his own hands will only make him ache more, and his head will only grow more cloudy. It’ll all get harder and harder by himself if he lets his pride and anxieties continue to get in the way.

That and, well, who’s he fucking kidding -- there’s the added bonus that if they come over and help him get through this, he’ll be checking something off his secret bucket list; something that’s been there since the first day he rolled into Hawkins last October.

Billy warily eyes the phone perched innocently on his rickety bedside table -- a beacon of hope. He extracts the hand making a weak attempt to fill him up, his fingers sticky and palm tacky with sweat, and mixes slick with the milky mess cooling on his stomach.

“Godammit,” he pants, and shakily reaches for the receiver.

☆

Billy’s going to _die_ of embarrassment when he’s coherent and stable enough to face Hop again. 

On top of having to fucking call him at the station because he couldn’t find _Steve Harrington’s_ number on the offered list of emergency numbers or a phone book anywhere, he _also_ had to clue him in on the situation at hand - “ _Oh_ , Christ, alright, I’ll uh, give you guys your space; I’ll tell El to just stay at the Hendersons’ tonight,” Hop had coughed uncomfortably and Billy went scarlet - before he could even ring Harrington.

And when he did, he nearly begged him to come over and give him some charity dick.

Which Harrington had, somewhat, easily agreed to. Almost makes the mortification of asking for some heat assistance something he can live with. Luckily, too, the guy had just gotten home from work when Billy called over.

 _Shit, uh, gimme fifteen minutes and I’ll be there?_ and _If we’re gonna do this, you gotta stop calling me by my last name._

Fucking, okay then.

The minutes between the phone call and Harrington’s - goddamn _Steve’s_ \- arrival tick by syrup slow. Billy builds himself a little nest to hunker down in. He doesn't know if, objectively, it’s any good, but when he settles down in it afterwards to test its comfort, it’s definitely a better hasty effort than his last attempt. Makes him feel less bristly. A little more safe.

It being a last minute project, it’s only comprised of things he’d quickly dug up from the hall closet and the top shelf in his own - a few mismatched pillows and warm winter sheets and a small floral patterned quilt that El offered him his first night at the cabin back in July - alongside his denim jacket and some of his softer thermals. 

He has the wall bordered with pillows and layers some of the sheets over the thin comforter already on his bed. There are some other miscellaneous supplies set on the floor and crammed onto his bedside table - some sports drinks Hop buys him to try and discourage chugging Lite while he lifts, carb-bomb snacks El kindly shares with him on a normal basis - just to make it easier on himself later.

A minute later and through his closed bedroom door, he can hear who he assumes to be Steve Harrington stumbling into the cabin. Hears the jingle of his keys as they likely find the hook by the door, as well as the way Steve - Jesus, that feels weird - mutters to himself, muffled through the thick wood. 

Billy wonders if he can smell him from out there. If the towels stuffed under the door did anything.

“Hargrove?” _Steve_ calls through the house. “Billy?”

Billy doesn’t answer. He doesn’t know in what shape his voice is in -- probably too breathy and pitchy for his own comfort last he uttered a word aloud. To preserve some remaining dredges of dignity otherwise though, he’s at least got himself tucked under the little quilt now so Steve won’t come in and get an immediate eyeful at his hard, red cock standing at full attention, at the smears of slick already going tacky on his thighs.

The haze is still rolling in, slow like morning fog, but he’s definitely losing coherency. Was luckily able to gather what he needed from the kitchen and bathroom and waddle through the living room to unlock the front door for Steve before his knees gave out. Popped the shoddy lock on his bedroom window open to help air out the already thick, saccharine smell of sex and heat pheromones, all molten honey and cinnamon.

Steve’s footsteps grow louder and stop abruptly outside of the door. Hard soles on creaky wood used to be a key element to Billy’s waking nightmares. Had him holding his breath and hoping he’d hold it for just too long and he wouldn’t feel that fear, or _anything_ , again. 

But that’s not a dilemma Billy has to encounter anymore. But even with Neil gone, his pale eyes vacant of life as he lay bathed in splatters of inky black blood and neon lights on the laminated Starcourt floor, Billy still sometimes expects him to claw his way through the woods into Hop’s cabin and drag Billy down into the dirt to rot away in the earth with him. 

Now, the sound of Steve’s expensive sneakers tapping on the worn floor of the cabin only washes him in relief.

“Billy?” he asks again, voice clearer and closer. “Can I come in?”

Billy shifts on the mattress.. “Yeah, fuck, hurry up.” 

After some brief hesitation, Steve tentatively opens the door. It creaks as it slowly swings open. Billy keeps the quilt drawn to his chin. Tucks his legs in tight so he’s nearly curled in the fetal position. 

It’s clear that the first real whiff Steve takes of him has him truly understanding the severity of the situation. His big brown eyes widen and his plush mouth forms around a knowing ‘o’.

He looks _good_. 

Well, shit, Steve’s _always_ looked good; being an alpha has nothing to do with that.

Really though, the guy is _so_ goddamnpretty. It’s only amplified by the fact that he’s standing in Billy’s bedroom looking like _this_ \-- with his hair as artfully coiffed as it always is, newfound length curling around his ears. Hiding more fading summer skin and moles is a striped tee tight over his lean torso and fitted Levi’s pressing the _monster_ \- can you really call something the girth of your wrist and near-length of your forearm anything else? - he’s packing against his thigh. 

The past two months they haven’t crossed paths more than three times. It’s not like he’s _forgotten_ what Steve looks like, not after being spank bank fuel for months.

(Like, what exactly _do_ you say to someone after dealing with all _that_ \- teaming up with your step sisters' nerd pack and its extended members to kill the evil extraterrestrial force possessing your own father - not even considering your past brawl? Billy’s not one for apologies, hard to do so even when he means it, after being forced to make them unnecessarily for years, so he hasn’t had much to say to Steve.

He _likes_ to think the tentative shoulder squeeze he managed to give after Steve had gathered him up in his arms and held him tight while he sobbed over the corpse or the man that only brought him pain his whole life, says more than he can with words.

If not, letting Steve fuck him will hopefully be enough of a reparation. No point in sacrificing a golden opportunity either way.)

Schematics aren’t exactly what he needs to worry about right now, though. Steve’s presence is the slightest balm to his prickled nerves. He smells sharp and clean, pine and rainwater. Billy wants to roll in it like freshly cut grass. 

“You really are in heat, Jesus.” Steve closes the door behind himself and leans back against it, pupils flooding out into a warm pool of golden brown. “How far gone are you?”

“Well I wasn’t fuckin’ _lying_ ,” Billy swallows thickly, “and not that far -- yet. You sure you’re okay with doing this, Harrington? You ever even been with someone in heat?”

As if _Billy_ has, but Steve doesn’t need to know that. He doesn’t need to know that Billy _may_ _have_ also skimped on the key detail of this being his first heat in like, _five years_ , too, and that he’s never hooked up with someone while being in heat, either. 

Not knowing won’t kill him or anything. It’s just a little convenient withholding.

But regardless of Steve’s presence and aid, he’s _still_ fucking scared. Too much unknown to consider. Another detail Billy doesn’t care to let slip.

Steve looks like he doesn’t want to answer that question, but he does nod his head shortly. It makes Billy’s stomach twist, an unrighteous jealousy souring his gut. He bites into his bottom lip to stifle a snarl. 

“A few times, but that was a while ago,” Steve quickly explains. “And yeah, it’s, well.” He shrugs, “I’m here, right?”

Billy doesn’t have the mental capacity to unpack the meaning behind _that_ right now, or get bent out of shape knowing he’s not going to be the first sloppy, pheromone-ridden piece Harrington’s gotten to stick his dick in before. 

With luck, he’ll just be the _best_.

He toys with the corner of the quilt, teasing, and sighs. “Alright, well, time to get to work then.”

Slowly he stretches his legs back out and peels the quilt away to reveal the mess he’s become -- shimmering in sweat, muscles tremoring. One careful hand partially skews the full view. Billy raises his brows, waiting.

After a few dumbfounded beats at staring where Billy’s hand poorly covers his modesty, Steve nods. Kicks his shoes away. Yanks off his socks. His shirt goes next, no finesse as he tugs it over his head with a swear, and he’s falling out of his jeans, a threatening bulge already tenting his briefs.

He seems to hesitate as to whether he should remove his underwear, too, but quickly makes his mind up when Billy starts moving his wrist as a means of incentive, whining just a little if that wasn’t enough. Steve drops his underwear. Billy’s shame abandons him as he’s presented with all he’s ever wanted to see in its full glory.

Steve’s already sporting a half chub. It’s probably born from the sudden onslaught of pheromones, or he’d started to chub up just thinking about this on the drive over. He’s also cut, long and solidly thick, his balls heavy. There’s a crop of trimmed dark curls above his cock, growing skywards to his navel. He holds himself as he crosses the short space between them and when his knees hit the edge of the mattress, Billy easily spreads his legs.

A ragged exhale leaves Steve’s lips before he wets them with a swipe of his tongue. Billy half assumes, half wishes Steve will spread his thighs wide as they’ll go, pin them down to the mattress hard enough the muscles burn and slip his cock in just like that, no hesitation or teasing. It’s usually the type of absent etiquette he doesn’t take kindly to; it’d be a tight fit even like this where his body is forced to relax, slick and slackened, to take as much as it can.

He hopes it won’t hurt too much when Steve pushes in. Just eyeing the weight of that fifth goddamn limb as it stands out from his body makes him squeeze down in anticipation.

But instead of just sliding home, Steve tentatively knees his way into Billy’s space and hesitates, sitting back on his knees between Billy’s open legs. 

Billy holds his breath while Steve pauses above him. Their eyes meet, warm brown and cool blue, and Billy feels willed to move his obscuring hand out of the way. Suddenly needs Steve to see how willing he is to give himself up. 

He’s already let him into his nest without the preamble of making him earn it -- courting, spoiling, whatever. That should speak volumes on its own.

Steve swallows thickly as he takes it all in -- the trimmed plane of sandy brown curls, Billy’s hard dick flush and twitching against his stomach, and his hole, slick and wrinkled,on full display. He swears his fever spikes a few more degrees under the heat of Steve’s gaze.

Dazedly, Steve slips down the bed so he’s laying on his stomach, half hanging off the twin-size. His hands slowly slide up the inside of Billy’s thighs, his fingers long and cool in contrast to the fever-hot skin. They fan out over tan flesh, sparse golden hairs. This close, his breath puffs hot over Billy’s dick. 

He’s _right there_. 

Billy’s hips jerk restlessly. He’s nearly shaking, body pulled taut, but he can’t dictate the shakes as anxiety or restlessness anymore.

He’s dreamed of Steve laying between his legs a thousand times. Has touched himself to the clear mental image of King Steve on his knees in the grimy locker room showers, looking up at Billy through wet hair and shower steam, sweetly swallowing him down. Has bitten into pillows in desperation imagining Steve pinning his knees tucked to his chest while he eats him out sloppily.

When Steve runs his tongue flat up his cock, Billy crumbles. Totally falls apart. A whine stuck high up in his throat escapes through clenched teeth. He never comes that easy. The muscles in his stomach clench up like he’s been getting worked up for an hour instead of the measly two seconds Steve’s tongue has been on him.

For a moment Steve seems to be stunned as well, but the way Billy ruts his hips against his face, desperate, doesn’t allow him to ruminate. Instead he gets to work. 

He doesn’t start off slow or teasing. Steve properly swallows him down, throat fluttering sweetly. He breathes raggedly through his nose, obviously struggling a little bit to keep Billy as far in his throat as he’d like, but he perseveres. Bobs his head a few times. Laps at the measly splatter cooling across his stomach. Billy humps his hips up and bites into his wrist in a vain attempt to quiet himself.

Steve pulls off abruptly then, panting. Billy nearly shouts at the shock of cool air. Before he can complain though, Steve slips further off the mattress, gently dragging his teeth down the seam of his balls before placing what _feels_ like a kiss right over his hole. 

Billy _wants_ to be more embarrassed about that. There’s an abundance of slick leaking out of him in a near-constant drip. Steve repeats the action and it looks like he’s fucking _smiling_ while he does it, just before he breaches swiftly with his tongue. Laps upt the slick and moans throatily. Billy grips at the blankets. It’s _a lot_. 

One off-handed squeeze to his cock and he’s coming again, no less strong. Still no inkling of flagging in Steve’s grasp.

But Steve doesn’t let up, even while Billy’s still jerking, convulsing even, dribbling on himself. He lays another kiss over Billy’s entrance, sloppier this time, spitting right on him and mixing it in, and fists Billy’s cock more solidly. A thumb toys with the creased foreskin tucked under his tip and drags it up the crown He strokes over the glossy tip, smearing remnants of fresh come. When Billy almost kicks out in response, thighs tense, he laughs and moves his hand a few times.

Billy lets one hand wander to Steve’s hair so he can knot his fingers into the silky locks and hold him close. Pushes up against his face and nearly cackles, _elated_ , when he feels a finger start to tease up his crack.

The digit slips in easy but Steve’s careful with how he moves -- there’s a few experimental thrusts where he changes how much he curls his finger, pulling off Billy’s dick to properly watch his face. Maybe to see how deep he can go and remain in comfortable territory. He alternates how fast or slow to move his wrist, too, and quickly finds what feels best when Billy can’t contain another sinful noise that sneaks out. 

If Steve was all sloppy, cocky technique, Billy would have immediately kicked him off and opened himself up instead. Thankfully, that doesn’t seem to be in the cards.

The fact that Steve went down on him before anything - without _asking_ , god above - _and_ is trying to figure out how to prep him - a little unnecessary under the circumstances but welcome nonetheless, especially given what he’ll be working with - without just corkscrewing his fingers in and thrusting as hard as he can, Billy _might_ be in love, raging hormone influx be damned.

In even exchange, he’s encouraging. He humps back against Steve’s finger, lets out pleased hums when Steve does something particularly nice - honestly just having something inside of him might be enough on its own - and swivels his hips to try and direct him to the most sensitive spot when he deigns verbal guidance too much effort.

Steve picks up on his cues quickly. Slips a second and third finger into him moments apart. He’s leaving Billy’s cock alone for now -- like he needs the additional stimulation to come at this point. 

His mouth is so pink where his lips are plush and parted. Billy watches through hooded eyes as Steve’s tongue traces the outline of his bottom lip in concentration. He’s fucking three fingers into Billy’s spot. The impact of his wrist working rapid-fire makes an awful racket of skin hitting skin.

The wet spot already underneath them is Billy’s fault alone.

Not even a minute of getting his spot hammered by Steves long, thin fingers and he’s coming. The orgasm is another simple clench-release. His toes curl and his whole body tenses again, but there’s a continuing lack of relief. Another wash of in-out -- like he hasn’t been touched at all. His cock remains filled out but barely spurts.

Steve keeps at it, working him through it, panting wet breaths over him, and something in Billy just _snaps_. He decides right then that this isn’t cutting it, as good as it does feel to have been given _something_ other than his own hands, to breathe in something crisp and satiating instead of the too-warm, too-sweet rolling off his own skin.

“Get _to_ it, Christ,” he growls then, “just fuck me already, enough playing around.”

Steve stills his wrist and looks up the sweaty expanse of Billy’s torso again to throw him a questioning look. His eyes are so big, the honey brown so blown out it’s drowning in the black wells of his pupils. His lips are a bitten raspberry red and Billy wants to bite into them, let the juice run over.

He urges Steve up with a flick of his chin, encouraging him further when he continues his blank stare with a pinch to the hip. Thankfully that has Steve tutting him with a low growl and retracting his fingers carefully. He swipes away the cloudy droplets going tacky over Billy’s navel. When he makes a show of dragging his teeth over the knuckles to suck the joined mess off them, Billy whimpers.

While Steve clambers the rest of the way up on the bed and gets himself situated, Billy rolls onto his stomach. The anxiety is still there, tickling the tips of his fingers and toes, fluttering in his chest, but he manages to get himself to move the rest of the way. Has this gut deep need for Steve to _see_ him. 

Billy pulls himself up on his hands and knees, then languidly slips forward til his chest and one cheek are flush to the mattress so he’s fully presenting. His arms stretch out in front of him and he fists at some of the blankets, bracing.

Waits impatiently while Steve seemingly hesitates out of his range of vision.

“C’mon Stevie boy, I don’t got all goddamn day; you want me to slip here?”

Steve smacks him on one cheek, hard enough that little pinpricks of pain bloom and he jolts forward an inch in surprise. “God just, just gimme a sec.” Billy still wriggles his hips when he feels a thumb stroke over him, just offering a few back and forth swipes, and he clenches down on nothing -- it feels like electricity shooting through him. “Fuck, you’re soaked,” Steve breathes.

There’s a slick sound then, probably Steve spreading some of Billy’s slick and remaining come on himself to lube up a little. Something warm and imposing presses against him, just barely opening him before pausing, hardly breaching.

“ _Harrington_ -”

“I’m just gonna,” Steve swallows thickly, “fuck, I don’t -”

Billy sinks back for him. 

It’s a _definite_ stretch even with the hormones loosening him up. He manages what seems like the first half in one fell swoop, eliciting gasps out of the both of them. Fingernails carve their way into his hips. He thinks just getting Steve inside made him come again because the muscles in his stomach are quivering and his thighs are that familiar kind of tense. He feels his cock kick weakly between his legs.

When Steve presses the last few inches in, it feels _impossibly_ deep. Billy knows, physically, he can’t be, but it’s like Steve’s in his stomach. He’s absolutely stuffed full. Doesn’t think he’s ever had something in him this big. Every waking wet dream he’s had since last October is being rectified -- minus getting to choke on Steve’s dick first. 

Even as neither of them are able to move yet, the prickled dredges of fear are starting to fade, melting into something new, something like full-bodied relief, a warm and comforting blanket he wants to wrap himself up in. It’s still there hiding behind his teeth, threatening a comeback, but just having something inside, the promiseof a tangible _more_ \-- it’s something _good_ he’s never experienced before.

Steve shakes a little behind him. Billy can feel the tremor on the back of his thighs, in his hands where they hold him in place. 

“Christ, you’re so _tight_ ,” Steve hisses. “Feels so fucking good.”

Billy inwardly preens at the praise. He squeezes down for good measure, hoping it’s enough encouragement to keep Steve going. Didn’t invite him here to act as a realistic dildo he’ll have to do all the work on. Like he never took King Steve for a two-pump chump and he _should_ give the guy a little bit of a break, considering the circumstances. Besides the suffocating pheromones, he doubts Steve’s been balls deep in anyone as of late.

Steve remains seated in him, reveling in his warmth. Mere seconds may have passed but Billy’s patience tires fast. Each pause and moment of hesitation has that fear, that hyperawareness fighting to overtake him again, to replace the pleasure flooding out between his legs outwards and stoke his fever, his aches, the emptiness inside him.

But Steve’s stillness makes him restless. He’s about to snark when he feels cool air brush across his ass, then the slow, slick drag of the pull-out. Billy tries to fight back a whine suddenly clawing its way up his throat, knowing all too well what comes next and _needing it_ despite his embarrassment.

When Steve slams back in, it slips out, long and loud and desperate. He tries to stifle it in the mattress but another comes, then another, as Steve slowly starts to work up a solid pace. 

He’s not hammering away, not going hard and fast and relentless; instead he pulls out in a slow, purposeful way and when he slides back in again, he drives in fast and deep, like he’s trying to press in deeper and deeper. It’s almost _careful_ ; it twists Billy’s stomach into knots.

“ _Harder_ ,” he growls then, trying to shake the newfound hopeful dredges fluttering in his chest by bouncing back when Steve pulls out again.

Steve only huffs in response and splays a palm on the center of his back. Pushes down with enough pressure he stays grounded. The next drive in is harder, enough to make the mattress creak. Billy grunts at the force of it. Does again, and again, as Steve keeps at it -- shoving in with fervor, retracting fast enough before that Billy can’t miss the abrupt emptiness.

He comes with another shudder, but the spasm elongates, drags out. His stomach drops out and shoots back up, like it’s hitting his throat. He can’t even tell if there’s any spunk left to wring out. Steve chokes when he tenses, grips his hip a little harder, but doesn’t relent.

The tenderness in his skin seems to lessen as Billy shakes his way through the tail end of his climax. Steve keeps pounding into him, moving fast and pushing in deep as his body allows. It’s a tremendous amount of pressure, a sting of heat that dances on the edge of pain. There’s a moment of hesitation when Billy weakly attempts to stifle another moan, but he doesn’t cease or slow. If Billy had the ability to say ‘thank you’ right now, he would.

He’s not quite feeling overstimulated yet -too early in for that - but he’s growing more pliant. Not slipping, but rather further surrendering his inhibitions to further curb and eventually sate the craving. It’s a little scary, really, maybe more than it was allowing himself to be seen in such a state of disaster and vulnerability. Or when he realized what was happening and how inexperienced and unequipped he was to deal with the situation at hand.

It doesn’t help that Steve keeps pressing into something that has Billy’s legs feeling like jelly. Stokes his fire. Has him clawing at the blankets to try and steady himself lest his knees give out and he’s completely flattened to the bed and Steve has to _literally_ fuck him into the mattress.

He thinks Steve’s asking him something then, because he’s going a little slower, but the words aren’t quite reaching Billy’s ears. They feel full of cotton fluff.

“Keep going,” he begs anyway, “fuck, just don’t stop -”

He doesn’t quite catch Steve’s reply, but the wet smack of their meeting point only grows louder, and the playful fingers sliding down his stomach, carding through light brown curls to grip his cock and tug -- that’s enough of an answer.

☆

The sunlight has shifted outside but Billy doesn’t know how much time has truly passed. 

He doesn’t know how many times he’s come, either. All he does know is that there’s a puddle under them from all slick, from come that slipped from his or Steve’s hand or connected to the bed in spider’s silk strands from Billy’s leaky cock, and his throat feels sandpaper raw with noises he didn’t even know he made, or that he _could_ make in the first place. All desperate keens and ragged purrs, rumblings of encouragement he’d be embarrassed to make in a more coherent space.

The pleasure is still there. There’s some added soreness from the stretch and stamina too - he’s finally started to flag though, standing half mast at best - so he’s not quite at the point yet where they’re totally over the hump, but most every other sensation has become muted. It’s like all his nerve endings have redirected to cluster at the points where Steve touches him -- always between his legs, but also at different points on his hips, his thighs, the center of his stomach, his nipples, the notches of his spine, too.

They’ve changed positions a few times to say the least. Nothing like, particularly complex or Kama Sutra inspired, but enough that he knows it’ll feel comparable to a rough workout when he gains a little more feeling in his extremities again. 

Presenting with his body tilted downwards probably fed into his pride the most -- a pride he’s never experienced before from offering himself up so willingly, but it still made him purr and preen and swell with pride; Steve definitely wasn’t complaining either. 

Laying face-down on the mattress with Steve’s sweat-slick torso cemented to his back, one arm wrapped around his front to keep his neck bowed up -- that hit at an angle that pressed the air out of him hard enough he couldn’t make a real sound. 

At one point he was bouncing in Steve’s lap barely able to hold himself upright. He was a ragdoll, flopping around uselessly, whining and trying to steady himself on mole-dappled shoulders when he had no coordination to offer, but Steve just pulled him up and down with ease, guided his hips in something akin to a death grip. It’s more than likely he’ll wake up tomorrow with a healthy smattering of purple and blue on his hips too -- a welcome pattern of bruising.

And with the claw marks he’s left on Steve’s arms and shoulders and back, he won’t walk out of this unscathed either.

Steve’s come in him, maybe twice, possibly three times at this point, but he hasn’t let himself knot yet despite Billy’s begging. Each time he’s pulled out and squeezed around the bulb despite how much it seemed to ache and swell, how much he hissed and his brows folded. Maybe Billy’s still not far enough in to get it. He doesn’t quite have the gauge for that.

Or -- Steve’s got a hangup about coming _inside_ someone. Like, Billy’s still on the pill, he’s not stupid; even in an elevated conception period, it’d still take work to get him like _that_.

Now he’s on his back, eyes trained to the wooden ceiling, and his legs are wrapped around Steve’s waist. They keep slipping with Billy’s inability to hold them up, but Steve holds his thighs in a sturdy grip and readjusts without complaint. 

Billy’s finally gone soft. It’s not like he’d be able to use his hands for anything right now anyway.

All he does and lay back and take it, revel in it all. There’s their ragged breaths, the soaked point of impact swelling with heat, the faint groaning of the mattress, the rush of blood in his ears. His nose is filled with their mingling pheromones - moss, cedar, honeyed sugar - and heady sweat. If he could bottle it up, pack it into a glass piece later -- he would.

The real distraction though, is Steve’s face. It’s why he keeps trying to either pinch his eyes shut or maintain eye contact with the ceiling. Sometimes his forehead drops to Billy’s neck and that makes it easier, even with him that much closer, because it means he can’t be tempted to look, but now Steve’s staring right through him and it’s taking all he has left not to give Steve the satisfaction of meeting his gaze -- just another surrender he’s fighting against.

Steve must catch on though. His thrusts slow. Fingers swiping through the tacky remainders on his stomach eases off. A thumb moves to press against Billy’s plush bottom lip, pressing in between his teeth. Release smears over his mouth and Billy laps it up hungrily. He fights to turn away.

“Do I look that rough?” Steve raggedly laughs. “You’ve barely looked at me this whole time, asshole.”

Billy grumbles around Steve’s thumb and caves. He looks more beautiful than Billy’s ever seen him before. 

His brows are scrunched and his pink lips are parted on a gasp. His cheeks are blooming a red that spreads up to his ears. Loose hairs stick to his neck forehead and curl, dark vines creeping along his skin. Billy shivers and clamps down just reading Steve’s face. Steve airily chuckles and bites into his lip, seemingly taking it in stride, and moves through it.

This must be vastly stroking his ego. Billy _knows_ he’ll never live this down, this vulnerability, how he’s let Steve grow more tender with him to the point they’re essentially fucking like some goddamn vanilla paired couple, gazing into each other’s eyes all sappy, but somehow he’s more okay with that than he was before.

He knows that despite his whole reputation beforehand, Steve Harrington wears his heart on his sleeve. Billy called him a _bitch_ when Steve was able to confidently offer a softness Billy had only seen as weakness inside of himself. 

Earlier he’d expected to call the guy over, flip onto his stomach, and take it until he had to paw Harrington away, only to send him out with a few tissues to wipe the spunk off his dick. Never see him under the same blanket of intimacy again, only coming back in contact with each other in sparse communal run-ins.

Now though, Billy wants to draw Steve in, hold tight, never let go. Give himself something he hasn’t allowed himself to really have, or that he even really deserves. 

Only if Steve is willing, too.

He figures when it comes to hooking up with Steve in any capacity, regardless of the person or their classification or _whatever_ , there’s going to be an undercurrent of tenderness to it, a little more intimacy than a normal one and done, but still -- Billy’s going to steal away as much of this as he can. 

He’ll allow himself the embarrassment later; hide it under the guise of mere heat side effects.

Steve’s head heavily falls back to his shoulder. His forehead feels damp with sweat and his damp bangs tickles the side of Billy’s neck, but he’s unbothered. Dipped down like this, covering Billy’s body with his own, he only offers these hiccupy little thrusts in, more so grinding in and inching out, planting himself deep. 

It turns his insides to molten lava. His cock twinges with tired interest.

Billy answers to the sudden need to draw his arms around Steve’s neck to keep him close. He pulls him in. Offers a nip to Steve’s earlobe to distract himself from wanting to meet his mouth.

Even when Steve encouraged him into his lap, finally faced him properly, they didn’t really _kiss_. Billy in general _doesn’t_ really kiss. Maybe he has a problem keeping his tongue to himself otherwise but in his opinion, it’s always too sloppy, too hungry, goes on too long for his tastes. If he’s going to be swallowing anything, why spit? Usually he’d rather pay attention to wide expanses of revealed skin, slender necks, more intimate areas.

But in this instant, all he wants is to feel Steve’s lips grazing his own. To feel the visible softness for himself and dream about it every night he’s alone after, tracing his mouth with his fingers at the memory.

His current capability to form proper sentences is abysmal but he tries to initiate. He turns away from hiding against Steve’s cheek so their noses brush together. A hint. Steve exhales hotly over his mouth and he wants. 

God, he fucking _wants_. 

“I think I’m gonna come again,” Steve says instead, voice strained, hips stuttering. He speaks against Billy’s lips but it’s not a real kiss. “Can I, mm, can I knot you?”

Almost disappointed, Billy nods his head lazily, huffs. Drops his arms from around Steve’s shoulders to fall back flat on the bed. Steve then shifts so he slips free - Billy hisses in the emptiness, the dull discomfort of it - and folds Billy’s legs down, twisting his hips gently to the side to make room for himself momentarily, before settling back between them and moving further into his space. Billy grunts as Steve maneuvers his legs over his shoulders. His hands graze Billy’s thighs and settle on the mattress.

Like this, their faces are barely an inch apart. When Billy stares down between them to watch Steve guide himself back inside, their foreheads press together. 

He feels dizzy this close. Billy’s so out of his element. This whole thing has been a bad idea packaged under shimmery wrappings and topped with a bow. As submissive as he’s physically allowed himself to be, swept up in the current of fever and feeling, he’s still fighting internally with what coherency he has left.

The sound of their bodies meeting is obscene, uncomfortably wet. Billy’s thighs itch with all the dried slick -- he might be getting dehydrated. How many times has he come? It’s more than the fingers he has to count on and still, he doesn’t feel satisfied. The soreness in his body only comes from the overuse of his hole and overstimulation on his dick, currently out of commission and unable to force anymore physical release.

He still hasn’t itched the scratch right yet.

No one’s touching his dick but the closeness of their bodies has Steve’s pubic bone grinding into it. It’s a prickly, overbearing kind of pleasure siding on uncomfortable when Steve drags over it. And while it’s gradually taken longer and longer for him to come the more he has, with or without toying with his cock, he still shudders in glee when Steve grinds into him for a few seconds before pulling back again. His toes curl and his stomach swoops.

He knows Steve’s going to come. His movements always get a little jerky and uncoordinated and his groans mix with his heavy breaths when he’s teetering on the edge. It’s perfect timing, really.

Billy tries to stave his release off. His greediness is winning out again. He wants to taste Steve’s mouth and the salt collected in the sandpaper five o’clock shadow above his lip. The insistence of his fat knot starting to bulge and stretch him further just isn’t enough of a balm.

He tilts his chin enough to fill the minimal space left between them. At first it’s more a smear of their mouths than an actual kiss. Steve stops moving completely as he comprehends it. Instead of rearing back or turning away, he responds with a thundering rumble in his chest, fulling pressing their mouths together.

Billy can’t help it. Euphoria swells and rises in his gut. His eyes squeeze shut and he scrambles to grip onto any part of Steve, finding his lean wrists and digging his nails into them, to ground himself. He whines, loud and long and desperate, and bites into Steve’s bottom lip as he comes. 

“ _Fuck_!”

He just starts to tighten when Steve joins him. He gasps and tilts and their noses knock together. Steve humps into him desperately, and Billy can feel the stretch of his knot as it grows, sharply tugging inside. The last few times, this was when Steve would pull out and grip himself, leaving Billy feeling empty and trying to hold the mess in himself.

Instead, it grows and stretches him, has him choking on air - Steve’s already _big_ but this is something completely different and he can hardly _breathe_ \- and a whole new wave of warmth floods out inside of him.

Billy’s still coming. If he could right now, he’d be spurting up his chest.

The coil at his center binds itself tight and then slackens, then tightens again as Steve pumps into him with little stutters of his hips. He pants hotly against Billy’s cheek. It’s just a continual roll of pleasure, tenfold what he’s been experiencing since Steve started touching him, and he can’t step on the breaks.

“Fuck, _fuck_ ,” Billy swears again, fully swept in the tide and drowning.

☆

At some point, it stops. He doesn’t know if it’s so strong he passes out, or he numbs out until it wavers and ends. Either way, he’s completely knocked on his ass. Even more floppy limbed and now completely incoherent. At least before, even in the midst of getting fucked and coming for the sixth, seventh, eighth going on god-knows-what time, in his head he could _kind of_ piece things together and maintain an internal stream of monologue -- now it’s like there’s a walnut rattling around in his skull. 

All he can register now is this full body tingle -- he’s wholly alight with weightlessness. It’s something akin to a _really_ good high minus that third-eye open-feeling. He’s untethered to the ground, floating through space. 

His eyes are open and unfocused. All he catches is blurs of golden light, a blurry outline of peach and brown and lavender overhead. The cotton-fluff in his ears has been replaced with this clogged up feeling, like palms cupping his ears to block out thunder and shouting and plates breaking. Whatever Steve’s saying - or whoever it is lying over him, he’s not even _sure_ anymore - sounds miles off. The words have lost all shape, fuzzy and formless.

Billy feels a shift, a sharp tug between his legs that has him whimpering in discomfort, and then he’s being carefully hoisted and shifted. He finds himself slightly reclined and laying on his stomach, pressed close to something warm. He’s still too out of it to tell exactly what right now, but it feels soft and smells comforting, and there are blurry indents of small dark marks sprinkled across it. He doesn’t question anything -- he dozes once again, lets himself rest and snuggle into it and its calming, crisp scent hiding under a familiar smokiness.

Eventually Billy stirs again, seemingly not much later than when he closed his eyes last. The light trailing in is far dimmer but it’s still there. He can see and hear a little better, too, and he’s able to start comprehending his surroundings again -- like the fact he’s been dozing on Steve Harrington’s _chest_ , nuzzled into the crook of his neck.

One of Steve’s hands is wrapped around his shoulders while the other cradles him low on his back. They’re reclined against a pile of pillows Billy had constructed earlier so they’re half sitting up. He’s more so sitting in Steve’s lap and laying on him than flattening him down. One of his hands is laying limply at his side while the other is splayed on Steve’s sternum, resting over a creeping patch of downy, dark hair -- he’s too afraid to move it now he’s noticed.

The dredges of heat have taken the backseat for now at least. He’s still a little warm, a little sore - now just in more places and more satisfyingly so - but some of the fuzzed edges have started to dissipate. Doesn’t feel so stoned off his ass or desperate to be fucked he can’t think straight. Can hear and see a little better. 

He’s still in the first act of his cycle and really just resting through an intermission; even with getting what he wanted - needed? - he has another day or two of this. Maybe even longer because his heat hasn’t come in so long.

Under him, Steve grumbles wordlessly and noses his temple. He adjusts his hold on Billy. His grip slackens just slightly.

“You up?” he asks groggily.

Billy freezes. Almost doesn’t reply. It was hard enough imagining Steve showing up in the first place, and then when he did, being so willing to help on top of having such a solid stroke game _and_ decent stamina with a partner in heat, _then_ taking Billy’s willingness to surrender in stride, treating him like precious cargo as opposed to a hole to fuck and be done with it.

For a moment he’s afraid if he says something it’ll break the spell and he’ll have to abandon these selfish indulgences. Will blame them solely on the heat - as opposed to them just breaking down his barriers and allowing himself to openly show he _wanted_ all this without shame - while he scrambles out of Steve’s grasp and kicks him out of his nest to save face, or Steve realizes that this was a big mistake and storms out, half dressed.

Instead he nods, almost meekly. Steve rubs his nose into Billy’s temple again. 

“I know it’s probably not gonna feel great, but my knot’s gone down and I kinda need to,” he makes a noise by clicking his tongue and Billy’s cheeks warm, “so I can actually get it up again later.”

Billy blinks stupidly. “What?” His voice sounds rough, unused. Pitched lower than normal. He cranes his neck to eye Steve carefully. “You’re staying?”

Steve’s cheeks also darken. The color reminds Billy of the geraniums his mother used to grow in the backyard -- fiery red.

“I mean, unless you’re good now? I think it’s kinda rude to just _leave_ in the middle of things, but that’s just me, so -”

“No,” Billy snaps, but it’s not sharp, rather whiney and more tired sounding, “don’t. Not yet.”

He pinches Steve’s hip when he giggles, making him yelp. 

“Be _nice_ to me, Hargrove,” Steve swats him gently on one cheek, “I drove _all_ the way out here after work to help you out, knotted you, _and_ planned to stay til you were completely done? I was even gonna make us sandwiches or something before next round, too.”

It makes Billy’s chest contract in a way he’s not used to. Steve’s still holding him. He hides himself back in the crook of his neck and breathes in, feeling far too seen. 

“Alright, alright, I’ll be nice,” he murmurs. He strokes his hand through the brown hair sprouting across Steve’s chest, absent last fall, making them change direction like wind blowing through grass. “I guess I’m not opposed to you staying, if you want. Or getting your knot again. Or you making me a sandwich.”

After a few more minutes basking in their temporary afterglow, Steve carefully lays Billy out on his back again and gently eases himself out. The mess that comes after makes both of them burn crimson. Billy tucks his own pillow between his legs, trying not to add more mess to the already destroyed sheets, and jabs Steve in the hip so he’ll make a move and _go to the goddamn kitchen already, pretty boy_. 

Steve awkwardly excuses himself, pushing himself out of the bed onto shaky legs. Before he leaves though, he lingers in the now open doorway, naked as the day he was born and cast in the final traces of a burning sunset. There’s something fond and foreign sparkling in his eyes that Billy’s never seen before.

He waits. Squeezes his thighs together, rocks back and forth. Snorts when he hears clattering followed by a series of swears coming from the kitchen.

This partial clarity is only temporary, he knows. He’s gonna have to call Hop before too long to try and convince him to garner the balls to ask Mrs. Byers if he can crash on her sofa - or whatever she’s willing to sacrifice - instead of sleeping at the station tonight. He’s also going to need to freshen up, replenish himself, as well as adjust his nest so it’s back to adequate standards before the clouds roll back in and his temperature spikes again.

But he’s not worried about it -- the next part. Or whether this’ll be another day, or two, or five. The fear of being alone going through this, of getting bad enough to slip prematurely, all of the anxieties he’d bottled up upon his realization -- they’ve abandoned him. Even his embarrassment over his neediness and his willingness to submit and receive, is washed away.

Billy doesn’t know what will happen to them after this. If this is a misstep in the right direction, this might open the door to something he never imagined himself being allowed to have. Or, on a less positive note, this was a lapse in judgement, possibly a mistake, and afterwards they’ll go back to how things were before, and he’ll look back on this time with a sense of melancholy and heartache of what could have been.

Either way, he’s not positive.

For now though, he’ll take each second he has with Steve, whether he’s gone from his mind and getting fucked back to coherency, or lazing in the afterglow with Steve pressed along his back, the contours of their bodies slotting together perfectly, in stride.


	2. Version Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as stated in chapter one, here's my original version of the fic, with a take i tend to go more for when writing a/b/o nowadays! if you prefer a different/non-trad/alt. coded take on male omegas, or you just like reading about some puss lovin' in general, this is for you!
> 
> be aware of a few sparse language choices early on! i don't use straight-up words for cooch for like 95% of the story, but please be aware nonetheless if that bothers you!

It’s not supposed to be this hot.

Late September has leaves burning and falling, grass yellowing, chilling winds creeping through cracked doors under the fall of darkness. Sunshine loses its warmth behind cloud cover and early nightfall.

So why, particularly at two in the afternoon, is Billy’s sweating out a fever? Perspiring on the spare twin size in the guest room - Hopper’s latest renovation project for the cabin and Billy’s current living space - drenching the borrowed sheets? Why do his muscles and bones twitch in pain and his thoughts twist and weave themselves into knots?

Because after waking up supposedly consumed by newfound allergies to convince himself that these seasonal allergies were a actually cold and that this _cold_ was actually the _flu_ and then _maybe_ this _flu_ was some random allergic reaction just from having been around fleshy interdimensional monsters and after nearly sucked into a portal of pressurized lightning — the realization smacks him sideways.

He’s in heat.

With all the blockers he’s been on, all the fillers and synthetic god-knows-what now slowly being flushed from his system, Billy hasn’t had a heat in _years_. Since his first, undeniably. Can’t tell if it’s just worse than he remembers or it was just this bad before. He’s already restless, dripping just from rubbing his thighs together, trying to will the wantaway if he can’t fuck it out of himself before the haze fully sets in. 

In his newfound internalized panic, he knows he can’t just ignore this either. He’ll slip really bad if he tries to fight it off, and then it’ll be worse than the persistent ache of _not enough_. Your body trying to quash it’s own raging fever and influxing hormones by shutting down -- he’s never experienced that and he doesn’t _want_ to.

Still -- he’s more scared of this whole mess than he wants to be, or that he’ll openly admit to. This _is_ a totally natural, common occurrence, but it’s only _his_ second heat and if his hazy memory serves him right, it was unbearablehaving to suffer through it alone the first time.

Last time he was only fourteen. He’d spent three days locked up in his bedroom with the fan on, the windows open, aching for some kind of relief from the burning fever and emptiness between his legs. Found no comfort in the hastily made nest of borrowed living room pillows and flannel sheets, or any real pleasure in rutting hopelessly against the said pillows, the mattress, or his own fingers.

But Billy’s not a quitter. He’s not going to be compliant and let this get the best of him. 

He kicks all the extra blankets to the end of the bed and stretches out on his back. Kicks his sleep pants the rest of the way off, tangling them with the sheets, and goes straight for his dick. It’s maybe the length of his thumb - top knuckle to fingertip - but it’s sensitive and fat, stiff with arousal. He rubs it between two fingers at a maddening, off-beat pace.

The orgasm hits him quickly, has him choking on an inhale, but it does nothing to curb the desire. His pussy keeps on aching and dripping down between his cheeks.

Billy tries to work his way through the aftershocks, frustrated as he drags another hand down his sweaty torso. Two blunt fingers brush past his folds and sink in where he’s hot and tight and wet. There’s no finesse to his movements -- he just needs to _come_.

He brushes his spot and the next orgasm hits, easy as flipping a switch. It’s just another hiccup of relief.

The real solution to his problem would be finding someone to come over and help him through this. Someone that can pin him down on his stomach so his knees dig into the wet spots he’s already left on the threadbare sheets and choke him with the bedding while holding him down with a solid, flat palm; to fill him up with come and have him spilling out and over, heaving and crying from the unbearable overstimulation.

He clenches up at the thought alone. Teases his cockhead in tight circles while he keeps his fingers crooked inside of himself.

It’s been a long time since he got fucked. His old hook-ups, the thick-headed believers of his old public charade -- they’re not going to do it for him. Would make too big a deal about this whole thing and gawk at the fact they had s _ecret omega Billy Hargrove_ on his knees for them and pout about how they weren’t offered up his hole earlier on. Plus he’s too vulnerable, too incapacitated the farther he falls, to let just anyone see or have him like this.

If he’s going to have someone to help him through it, he’d rather pick someone he knows isn’t going to take advantage of him. It’s the smartest option in this scenario.

And like, despite the accessibility, the thought planting itself in his head for half a second before he’s so disturbed with himself he stops touching himself for a moment -- Billy’s _not_ going to fuck Hop out of desperation. Or send him out to go track someone down that’d be willing. 

Even if he wasn’t the chief of police, he wouldn’t ask that of the _one_ person that’s given him a genuine stab at redemption and actually helped him -- given him a bed and a door that doesn’t lock from the outside, doesn’t confiscate dinner because Billy’s mere _presence_ kills his appetite, is as patient as a tired grump like Hop can be.

He draws a ragged breath as he adds another finger. There’s no real relief, no tangible stretch even with three digits tightly pressed together inside.

It’s overwhelming just laying here like this -- head swimming, movements slowed, hyperfocused on stimulation alone. But he’s also far too aware of everything else at the same time, like the itch of the sheets and how his hair is sticking to his back, how still the woods are. 

Everything is contradictory. Already so much and not enough.

But.

Billy spaces for a second to play with his dick, rolling over the head in a way that usually makes his muscles tense, and wriggles his wrist instead of fucking it in and out of his hole. He comes again, just as unsatisfying. Throws his head back into his pillow and groans, more out of frustration than pleasure.

There is _one_ person he has just enough supposed trust in that could lend him a hand - or a dick, preferably - in this dire situation. But it’s a risky gamble. More soembarrassing. If they agree to this, he’ll probably never live this down -- there’ll be leverage on him for years to come.

But he knows the prickle of heat on his skin is only going to get worse, each orgasm born of his own hands will only make him ache more, and his head will only grow more cloudy. It’ll all get harder and harder by himself if he lets his pride and anxieties continue to get in the way.

That and, well, who’s he fucking kidding -- there’s the added bonus that if they come over and help him get through this, he’ll be checking something off his secret bucket list; something that’s been there since the first day he rolled into Hawkins last October.

Billy warily eyes the phone perched innocently on his rickety bedside table -- a beacon of hope. He extracts the hand making a weak attempt to fill him up, his fingers sticky and palm tacky with sweat, and wipes the slick off on his stomach.

“Godammit,” he pants, and shakily reaches for the receiver.

☆

Billy’s going to _die_ of embarrassment when he’s coherent and stable enough to face Hop again. 

On top of having to fucking call him at the station because he couldn’t find _Steve Harrington’s_ number on the offered list of emergency numbers or a phone book anywhere, he _also_ had to clue him in on the situation at hand - “ _Oh_ , Christ, alright, I’ll uh, give you guys your space; I’ll tell El to just stay at the Hendersons’ tonight,” Hop had coughed uncomfortably and Billy went scarlet - before he could even ring Harrington.

And when he did, he nearly begged him to come over and give him some charity dick.

Which Harrington had, somewhat, easily agreed to. Almost makes the mortification of asking for some heat assistance something he can live with. Luckily, too, the guy had just gotten home from work when Billy called over.

 _Shit, uh, gimme fifteen minutes and I’ll be there?_ and _If we’re gonna do this, you gotta stop calling me by my last name._

Fucking, okay then.

The minutes between the phone call and Harrington’s - goddamn _Steve’s_ \- arrival tick by syrup slow. Billy builds himself a little nest to hunker down in. He doesn't know if, objectively, it’s any good, but when he settles down in it afterwards to test its comfort, it’s definitely a better hasty effort than his last attempt. Makes him feel less bristly. A little more safe.

It being a last minute project, it’s only comprised of things he’d quickly dug up from the hall closet and the top shelf in his own - a few mismatched pillows and warm winter sheets and a small floral patterned quilt that El offered him his first night at the cabin back in July - alongside his denim jacket and some of his softer thermals. 

He has the wall bordered with pillows and layers some of the sheets over the thin comforter already on his bed. There are some other miscellaneous supplies set on the floor and crammed onto his bedside table - some sports drinks Hop buys him to try and discourage chugging Lite while he lifts, carb-bomb snacks El kindly shares with him on a normal basis - just to make it easier on himself later.

Ears pricked, he hears a car pull up the rocky drive. He waits, anxious, perched on the edge of the mattress.

A minute later and through his closed bedroom door, he can hear who he assumes to be Steve Harrington stumbling into the cabin. Hears the jingle of his keys as they likely find the hook by the door, as well as the way Steve - Jesus, that feels weird - mutters to himself, muffled through the thick wood. 

Billy wonders if he can smell him from out there. If the towels stuffed under the door did anything.

“Hargrove?” _Steve_ calls through the house. “Billy?”

Billy doesn’t answer. He doesn’t know in what shape his voice is in -- probably too breathy and pitchy for his own comfort last he uttered a word aloud. To preserve some remaining dredges of dignity otherwise though, he’s at least got himself tucked under the little quilt now so Steve won’t come in and get an immediate eyeful at the dripping mess between his legs, at the smears of slick already going tacky on his thighs.

The haze is still rolling in, slow like morning fog, but he’s definitely losing coherency. Was luckily able to gather what he needed from the kitchen and bathroom and waddle through the living room to unlock the front door for Steve before his knees gave out. Popped the shoddy lock on his bedroom window open to help air out the already thick, saccharine smell of sex and heat pheromones, all molten honey and cinnamon.

Steve’s footsteps grow louder and stop abruptly outside of the door. Hard soles on creaky wood used to be a key element to Billy’s waking nightmares. Had him holding his breath and hoping he’d hold it for just too long and he wouldn’t feel that fear, or _anything_ , again. 

But that’s not a dilemma Billy has to encounter anymore. But even with Neil gone, his pale eyes vacant of life as he lay bathed in splatters of inky black blood and neon lights on the laminated Starcourt floor, Billy still sometimes expects him to claw his way through the woods into Hop’s cabin and drag Billy down into the dirt to rot away in the earth with him. 

Now, the sound of Steve’s expensive sneakers tapping on the worn floor of the cabin only washes him in relief.

“Billy?” he asks again, voice clearer and closer. “Can I come in?”

Billy shifts on the mattress.. “Yeah, fuck, hurry up.” 

After some brief hesitation, Steve tentatively opens the door. It creaks as it slowly swings open. Billy keeps the quilt drawn to his chin. Tucks his legs in tight so he’s nearly curled in the fetal position. 

It’s clear that the first real whiff Steve takes of him has him truly understanding the severity of the situation. His big brown eyes widen and his plush mouth forms around a knowing ‘o’.

He looks _good_. 

Well, shit, Steve’s _always_ looked good; being an alpha has nothing to do with that. 

Really though, the guy is _so_ goddamnpretty. It’s only amplified by the fact that he’s standing in Billy’s bedroom looking like _this_ \-- with his hair as artfully coiffed as it always is, newfound length curling around his ears. Hiding more fading summer skin and moles is a striped tee tight over his lean torso and fitted Levi’s pressing the _monster_ \- can you really call something the girth of your wrist and near-length of your forearm anything else? - he’s packing against his thigh. 

The past two months they haven’t crossed paths more than three times. It’s not like he’s _forgotten_ what Steve looks like, not after being spank bank fuel for months.

(Like, what exactly _do_ you say to someone after dealing with all _that_ \- teaming up with your step sisters' nerd pack and its extended members to kill the evil extraterrestrial force possessing your own father - not even considering your past brawl? Billy’s not one for apologies, hard to do so even when he means it, after being forced to make them unnecessarily for years, so he hasn’t had much to say to Steve.

He _likes_ to think the tentative shoulder squeeze he managed to give after Steve had gathered him up in his arms and held him tight while he sobbed over the corpse or the man that only brought him pain his whole life, says more than he can with words.

If not, letting Steve fuck him will hopefully be enough of a reparation. No point in sacrificing a golden opportunity either way.)

Schematics aren’t exactly what he needs to worry about right now, though. Steve’s presence is the slightest balm to his prickled nerves. He smells sharp and clean, pine and rainwater. Billy wants to roll in it like freshly cut grass. 

“You really are in heat, Jesus.” Steve closes the door behind himself and leans back against it, pupils flooding out into a warm pool of golden brown. “How far gone are you?”

“Well I wasn’t fuckin’ _lying_ ,” Billy swallows thickly, “and not that far -- yet. You sure you’re okay with doing this, Harrington? You ever even been with someone in heat?”

As if _Billy_ has, but Steve doesn’t need to know that. He doesn’t need to know that Billy _may_ _have_ also skimped on the key detail of this being his first heat in like, _five years_ , too, and that he’s never hooked up with someone while being in heat, either. 

Not knowing won’t kill him or anything. It’s just a little convenient withholding.

But regardless of Steve’s presence and aid, he’s _still_ fucking scared. Too much unknown to consider. Another detail Billy doesn’t care to let slip.

Steve looks like he doesn’t want to answer that question, but he does nod his head shortly. It makes Billy’s stomach twist, an unrighteous jealousy souring his gut. He bites into his bottom lip to stifle a snarl. 

“A few times, but that was a while ago,” Steve quickly explains. “And yeah, it’s, well.” He shrugs, “I’m here, right?”

Billy doesn’t have the mental capacity to unpack the meaning behind _that_ right now, or get bent out of shape knowing he’s not going to be the first sloppy, pheromone-ridden piece Harrington’s gotten to stick his dick in before. 

With luck, he’ll just be the _best_.

He toys with the corner of the quilt, teasing, and sighs. “Alright, well, time to get to work then.”

Slowly he stretches his legs back out and peels the quilt away to reveal the mess he’s become -- shimmering in sweat, muscles tremoring. One careful hand partially skews the full view. Billy raises his brows, waiting.

After a few dumbfounded beats at staring where Billy’s hand poorly covers his modesty, Steve nods. Kicks his shoes away. Yanks off his socks. His shirt goes next, no finesse as he tugs it over his head with a swear, and he’s falling out of his jeans, a threatening bulge already tenting his briefs.

He seems to hesitate as to whether he should remove his underwear, too, but quickly makes his mind up when Billy starts moving his wrist as a means of incentive, whining just a little if that wasn’t enough. Steve drops his underwear. Billy’s shame abandons him as he’s presented with all he’s ever wanted to see in its full glory.

Steve’s already sporting a half chub. It’s probably born from the sudden onslaught of pheromones, or he’d started to chub up just thinking about this on the drive over. He’s also cut, long and solidly thick, his balls heavy. There’s a crop of trimmed dark curls above his cock, growing skywards to his navel. He holds himself as he crosses the short space between them and when his knees hit the edge of the mattress, Billy easily spreads his legs.

A ragged exhale leaves Steve’s lips before he wets them with a swipe of his tongue. Billy half assumes, half wishes Steve will spread his thighs wide as they’ll go, pin them down to the mattress hard enough the muscles burn and slip his cock in just like that, no hesitation or teasing. It’s usually the type of absent etiquette he doesn’t take kindly to; it’d be a tight fit even like this where his body is forced to relax, slick and slackened, to take as much as it can.

He hopes it won’t hurt too much when Steve pushes in. Just eyeing the weight of that fifth goddamn limb as it stands out from his body makes him squeeze down in anticipation.

But instead of just sliding home, Steve tentatively knees his way into Billy’s space and hesitates, sitting back on his knees between Billy’s open legs. 

Billy holds his breath while Steve pauses above him. Their eyes meet, warm brown and cool blue, and Billy feels willed to move his obscuring hand out of the way. Suddenly needs Steve to see how willing he is to give himself up. 

He’s already let him into his nest without the preamble of making him earn it -- courting, spoiling, whatever. That should speak volumes on its own.

Steve swallows thickly as he takes it all in -- the trimmed plane of sandy brown curls, Billy’s hard little dick, flush and throbbing, and his cunt, parted slightly in this position. He swears his fever spikes a few more degrees under the heat of Steve’s gaze.

Dazedly, Steve slips down the bed so he’s laying on his stomach, half hanging off the twin-size. His hands slowly slide up the inside of Billy’s thighs, his fingers long and cool in contrast to the fever-hot skin. They fan out over tan flesh, sparse golden hairs. This close, his breath puffs hot over Billy’s dick. 

He’s _right there_. 

Billy’s hips jerk restlessly. He’s nearly shaking, body pulled taut, but he can’t dictate the shakes as anxiety or restlessness anymore.

He’s dreamed of Steve laying between his legs a thousand times. Has touched himself to the clear mental image of King Steve on his knees in the grimy locker room showers, looking up at Billy through wet hair and shower steam, sweetly sucking his cock in his mouth. Has bitten into pillows in desperation imagining getting laid out in what he imagines to be the impossible softness of Steve’s bed, his knees tucked to his chest while Steve pins them under his palms and eats him out hungrily and sloppily.

When Steve runs his tongue flat between his folds, Billy crumbles. Totally falls apart. A whine stuck high up in his throat escapes through clenched teeth. He never comes that easy. The muscles in his stomach clench up like he’s been getting worked up for an hour instead of the measly two seconds Steve’s tongue has been on him.

For a moment Steve seems to be stunned as well, but the way Billy ruts his hips against his face, desperate, doesn’t allow him to ruminate. Instead he gets to work. 

He doesn’t start off slow or teasing. Steve properly licks Billy open, sucks at the abundance of slick leaking out of him in a near-constant drip. Points his tongue and fucks it in a few times, moans throatily. Billy grips at the blankets. It’s _a lot_. One off-handed suck to his cock and he’s coming again, no less strong. 

Steve doesn’t let up, even while Billy’s still jerking, convulsing even. He lays a sloppy kiss over Billy’s slit, all puffy with arousal and sticky with spit and come, and sucks Billy’s cock into his mouth. Rolls over the head with his tongue in tight circles, flicks over it back and forth. His nose is pressed into the crop of curly hair there. The harshness of his breath tickles.

Billy lets one hand wander to Steve’s hair so he can knot his fingers into the silky locks and hold him close. Pushes up against his face and nearly cackles, _elated_ , when he feels a finger start to tease between his folds.

The digit slips in easy but Steve’s careful with how he moves -- there’s a few experimental thrusts where he changes how much he curls his finger, and carefully watches Billy’s face for hints of good and bad. To see how deep he can go and remain in comfortable territory. He alternates how fast or slow to move his wrist, too, and quickly finds what feels best when Billy can’t contain another sinful noise that sneaks out as he drags out, punches back in, curls his finger skyward.

If Steve was all sloppy, cocky technique, Billy would have immediately kicked him off and opened himself up instead. Thankfully, that doesn’t seem to be in the cards.

The fact that Steve went down on him before anything - without _asking_ , god above - _and_ is trying to figure out how to prep him - unnecessary under the circumstances but welcome nonetheless, especially given what he’ll be working with - without just corkscrewing his fingers in and thrusting as hard as he can, Billy _might_ be in love, raging hormone influx be damned.

In even exchange, he’s encouraging. He humps back against Steve’s finger, lets out pleased hums when Steve does something particularly nice - honestly just having something inside of him might be enough on its own - and swivels his hips to try and direct him to the hot spots when he deigns verbal guidance too much effort.

Steve picks up on his cues quickly. Slips a second and third finger into him moments apart. He’s pulled off Billy’s dick for now. His mouth is so pink where his lips are plush and parted. Billy watches through hooded eyes as Steve’s tongue traces the outline of his bottom lip in concentration. He’s fucking three fingers into Billy’s spot. The impact of his wrist working rapid-fire makes an awful racket of squelching and smacking. 

There’s already a wet spot underneath them and Billy’s had yet to properly gush.

Not even a minute of getting his spot hammered by Steves long, thin fingers and he’s coming. The orgasm is another simple clench-release. His toes curl and his whole body tenses again, but there’s a continuing lack of relief. Another wash of in-out -- like he hasn’t been touched at all.

Steve keeps at it, working him through it, panting wet breaths over him, and something in Billy just _snaps_. He decides right then that this isn’t cutting it, as good as it does feel to have been given _something_ other than his own hands, to breathe in something crisp and satiating instead of the too-warm, too-sweet rolling off his own skin.

“Get _to_ it, Christ,” he growls then, “just fuck me already, enough playing around.”

Steve stills his wrist and looks up the sweaty expanse of Billy’s torso to throw him a questioning look. His eyes are so big, the honey brown so blown out it’s drowning in the black wells of his pupils. His lips are a bitten raspberry red and Billy wants to bite into them, let the juice run over.

He urges Steve up with a flick of his chin, encouraging him further when he continues his blank stare with a pinch to the hip. Thankfully that has Steve tutting him with a low growl and retracting his fingers carefully. When he makes a show of dragging his teeth over the knuckles to suck the mess off them, Billy whimpers.

While Steve clambers the rest of the way up on the bed and gets himself situated, Billy rolls onto his stomach. The anxiety is still there, tickling the tips of his fingers and toes, fluttering in his chest, but he manages to get himself to move the rest of the way. Has this gut deep need for Steve to _see_ him. 

Billy pulls himself up on his hands and knees, then languidly slips forward til his chest and one cheek are flush to the mattress so he’s fully presenting. His arms stretch out in front of him and he fists at some of the blankets, bracing.

Waits impatiently while Steve seemingly hesitates out of his range of vision.

“C’mon Stevie boy, I don’t got all goddamn day; you want me to slip here?”

Steve smacks him on one cheek, hard enough that little pinpricks of pain bloom and he jolts forward an inch in surprise. “God just, just gimme a sec.” Billy still wriggles his hips when he feels a thumb stroke over him, just offering a few back and forth swipes, and he clenches down on nothing -- it feels like electricity shooting through him. “Fuck, you’re soaked,” Steve breathes.

There’s a slick sound then, probably Steve spreading some of Billy’s come on himself to lube up a little. Something warm and imposing presses against him, just barely parting him open before pausing, hardly breaching him.

“ _Harrington_ -”

“I’m just gonna,” Steve swallows thickly, “fuck, I don’t -”

Billy sinks back for him. 

It’s a _definite_ stretch even with the hormones loosening him up. He manages what seems like the first half in one fell swoop, eliciting gasps out of the both of them. Fingernails carve their way into his hips. He thinks just getting Steve inside made him come again because the muscles in his stomach are quivering and his thighs are that familiar kind of tense.

When Steve presses the last few inches in, it feels _impossibly_ deep. Billy knows, physically, he can’t be, but it’s like Steve’s in his stomach. He’s absolutely stuffed full. Doesn’t think he’s ever had something in him this big. Every waking wet dream he’s had since last October is being rectified -- minus getting to choke on Steve’s dick first. 

Even as neither of them are able to move yet, the prickled dredges of fear are starting to fade, melting into something new, something like full-bodied relief, a warm and comforting blanket he wants to wrap himself up in. It’s still there hiding behind his teeth, threatening a comeback, but just having something inside, the promiseof a tangible _more_ \-- it’s something _good_ he’s never experienced before.

Steve shakes a little behind him. Billy can feel the tremor on the back of his thighs, in his hands where they hold him in place. 

“Christ, you’re so _tight_ ,” Steve hisses. “Feels so fucking good.”

Billy inwardly preens at the praise. He squeezes down for good measure, hoping it’s enough encouragement to keep Steve going. Didn’t invite him here to act as a realistic dildo he’ll have to do all the work on. Like he never took King Steve for a two-pump chump and he _should_ give the guy a little bit of a break, considering the circumstances. Besides the suffocating pheromones, he doubts Steve’s been balls deep in anyone as of late.

Steve remains seated in him, reveling in his warmth. Mere seconds may have passed but Billy’s patience tires fast. Each pause and moment of hesitation has that fear, that hyperawareness fighting to overtake him again, to replace the pleasure flooding out between his legs outwards and stoke his fever, his aches, the emptiness inside him.

But Steve’s stillness makes him restless. He’s about to snark when he feels cool air brush across his ass, then the slow, slick drag of the pull-out. Billy tries to fight back a whine suddenly clawing its way up his throat, knowing all too well what comes next and _needing it_ despite his embarrassment.

When Steve slams back in, it slips out, long and loud and desperate. He tries to stifle it in the mattress but another comes, then another, as Steve slowly starts to work up a solid pace. 

He’s not hammering away, not going hard and fast and relentless; instead he pulls out in a slow, purposeful way and when he slides back in again, he drives in fast and deep, like he’s trying to press in deeper and deeper. It’s almost _careful_ ; it twists Billy’s stomach into knots.

“ _Harder_ ,” he growls then, trying to shake the newfound hopeful dredges fluttering in his chest by bouncing back when Steve pulls out again.

Steve only huffs in response and splays a palm on the center of his back. Pushes down with enough pressure he stays grounded. The next drive in is harder, enough to make the mattress creak. Billy grunts at the force of it. Does again, and again, as Steve keeps at it -- shoving in with fervor, retracting fast enough before that Billy can’t miss the abrupt emptiness.

He comes with another shudder, but the spasm elongates, drags out. His stomach drops out and shoots back up, like it’s hitting his throat. When he tenses, Steve grips his hip a little harder, but doesn’t relent.

The tenderness in his skin seems to lessen as Billy shakes his way through the tail end of his climax. Steve keeps pounding into him, moving fast and pushing in deep as his body allows. It’s a tremendous amount of pressure, a sting of heat that dances on the edge of pain. There’s a moment of hesitation when Billy weakly attempts to stifle another moan, but he doesn’t cease or slow. If Billy had the ability to say ‘thank you’ right now, he would.

He’s not quite feeling overstimulated yet -too early in for that - but he’s growing more pliant. Not slipping, but rather further surrendering his inhibitions to further curb and eventually sate the craving. It’s a little scary, really, maybe more than it was allowing himself to be seen in such a state of disaster and vulnerability. Or when he realized what was happening and how inexperienced and unequipped he was to deal with the situation at hand.

There’s a degree of peacefulness to it, too. It’s all just so new and his head’s so fuzzy he can’t match the words up correctly.

It doesn’t help that Steve keeps pressing into something that has Billy’s legs feeling like jelly. Stokes his fire. Has him clawing at the blankets to try and steady himself lest his knees give out and he’s completely flattened to the bed and Steve has to _literally_ fuck him into the mattress.

He thinks Steve’s asking him something then, because he’s going a little slower, but the words aren’t quite reaching Billy’s ears. They feel full of cotton fluff.

“Keep going,” he begs anyway, “fuck, just don’t stop -”

He doesn’t quite catch Steve’s reply, but the wet smack of their meeting point only grows louder, and the playful fingers sliding down his stomach, carding through light brown curls to rest over his cock -- that’s enough of an answer.

☆

The sunlight has shifted outside but Billy doesn’t know how much time has truly passed. 

He doesn’t know how many times he’s come, either. All he does know is that there’s a puddle under them from all his gushing, and his throat feels sandpaper raw with noises he didn’t even know he made, or that he _could_ make in the first place. All desperate keens and ragged purrs, rumblings of encouragement he’d be embarrassed to make in a more coherent space.

Billy also feels lighter, miles away. 

The pleasure is still there. There’s some added soreness from the stretch and stamina too so he’s not quite at the point yet where they’re totally over the hump, but most every other sensation has become muted. It’s like all his nerve endings have redirected to cluster at the points where Steve touches him -- always between his legs, but at different points on his hips, his thighs, the center of his stomach, his nipples, the notches of his spine, too.

They’ve changed positions a few times to say the least. Nothing like, particularly complex or Kama Sutra inspired, but enough that he knows it’ll feel comparable to a rough workout when he gains a little more feeling in his extremities again. 

Presenting with his body tilted downwards probably fed into his pride the most -- a pride he’s never experienced before from offering himself up so willingly, but it still made him purr and preen and swell with pride; Steve definitely wasn’t complaining either. 

Laying face-down on the mattress with Steve’s sweat-slick torso cemented to his back, one arm wrapped around his front to keep his neck bowed up -- that hit at an angle that pressed the air out of him hard enough he couldn’t make a real sound. 

At one point he was bouncing in Steve’s lap barely able to hold himself upright. He was a ragdoll, flopping around uselessly, whining and trying to steady himself on mole-dappled shoulders when he had no coordination to offer, but Steve just pulled him up and down with ease, guided his hips in something akin to a death grip. It’s more than likely he’ll wake up tomorrow with a healthy smattering of purple and blue on his hips too -- a welcome pattern of bruising.

And with the claw marks he’s left on Steve’s arms and shoulders and back, he won’t walk out of this unscathed either.

Steve’s come in him, maybe twice, possibly three times at this point, but he hasn’t let himself knot yet despite Billy’s begging. Each time he’s pulled out and squeezed around the bulb despite how much it seemed to ache and swell, how much he hissed and his brows folded. Maybe Billy’s still not far enough in to get it. He doesn’t quite have the gauge for that.

Or -- Steve’s got a hangup about coming _inside_ someone. Like, Billy’s still on the pill, he’s not stupid; even in an elevated conception period, it’d still take work to get him like _that_.

Now he’s on his back, eyes trained to the wooden ceiling, and his legs are wrapped around Steve’s waist. They keep slipping with Billy’s inability to hold them up, but Steve holds his thighs in a sturdy grip and readjusts without complaint. 

All he does and lay back and take it, revel in it all. There’s their ragged breaths, the soaked point of impact swelling with heat, the faint groaning of the mattress, the rush of blood in his ears. His nose is filled with their mingling pheromones - moss, cedar, honeyed sugar - and heady sweat. If he could bottle it up, pack it into a glass piece later -- he would.

The real distraction though, is Steve’s face. It’s why he keeps trying to either pinch his eyes shut or maintain eye contact with the ceiling. Sometimes his forehead drops to Billy’s neck and that makes it easier, even with him that much closer, because it means he can’t be tempted to look, but now Steve’s staring right through him and it’s taking all he has left not to give Steve the satisfaction of meeting his gaze -- just another surrender he’s fighting against.

Steve must catch on though. His thrusts slow and the thumb swiping over Billy’s sensitized cock eases off. It moves to press against Billy’s plush bottom lip, pressing in between his teeth. Slick smears over his mouth and Billy laps it up hungrily. He fights to turn away.

“Do I look that rough?” Steve raggedly laughs. “You’ve barely looked at me this whole time, asshole.”

Billy grumbles around Steve’s thumb and caves. He looks more beautiful than Billy’s ever seen him before. 

His brows are scrunched and his pink lips are parted on a gasp. His cheeks are blooming a red that spreads up to his ears. Loose hairs stick to his neck forehead and curl, dark vines creeping along his skin. Billy shivers and clamps down just reading Steve’s face. Steve airily chuckles and bites into his lip, seemingly taking it in stride, and moves through it.

This must be vastly stroking his ego. Billy _knows_ he’ll never live this down, this vulnerability, how he’s let Steve grow more tender with him to the point they’re essentially fucking like some goddamn vanilla paired couple, gazing into each other’s eyes all sappy, but somehow he’s more okay with that than he was before.

He knows that despite his whole reputation beforehand, Steve Harrington wears his heart on his sleeve. Billy called him a _bitch_ when Steve was able to confidently offer a softness Billy had only seen as weakness inside of himself. 

Earlier he’d expected to call the guy over, flip onto his stomach, and take it until he had to paw Harrington away, only to send him out with a few tissues to wipe the spunk off his dick. Never see him under the same blanket of intimacy again, only coming back in contact with each other in sparse communal run-ins.

Now though, Billy wants to draw Steve in, hold tight, never let go. Give himself something he hasn’t allowed himself to really have, or that he even really deserves. 

Only if Steve is willing, too.

He figures when it comes to hooking up with Steve in any capacity, regardless of the person or their classification or _whatever_ , there’s going to be an undercurrent of tenderness to it, a little more intimacy than a normal one and done, but still -- Billy’s going to steal away as much of this as he can. 

He’ll allow himself the embarrassment later; hide it under the guise of mere heat side effects.

Steve’s head heavily falls back to his shoulder. His forehead feels damp with sweat and his damp bangs tickles the side of Billy’s neck, but he’s unbothered. Dipped down like this, covering Billy’s body with his own, he only offers these hiccupy little thrusts in, more so grinding in and inching out, planting himself deep. 

It turns his insides to molten lava. 

Billy answers to the sudden need to draw his arms around Steve’s neck to keep him close. He pulls him in. Offers a nip to Steve’s earlobe to distract himself from wanting to meet his mouth.

Even when Steve encouraged him into his lap, finally faced him properly, they didn’t really _kiss_. Billy in general _doesn’t_ really kiss. Maybe he has a problem keeping his tongue to himself otherwise but in his opinion, it’s always too sloppy, too hungry, goes on too long for his tastes. If he’s going to be swallowing anything, why spit? Usually he’d rather pay attention to wide expanses of revealed skin, slender necks, more intimate areas.

But in this instant, all he wants is to feel Steve’s lips grazing his own. To feel the visible softness for himself and dream about it every night he’s alone after, tracing his mouth with his fingers at the memory.

His current capability to form proper sentences is abysmal but he tries to initiate. He turns away from hiding against Steve’s cheek so their noses brush together. A hint. Steve exhales hotly over his mouth and he wants.

God, he fucking _wants_. 

“I think I’m gonna come again,” Steve says instead, voice strained, hips stuttering. He speaks against Billy’s lips but it’s not a real kiss. “Can I, mm, can I knot you?”

Almost disappointed, Billy nods his head lazily, huffs. Drops his arms from around Steve’s shoulders to fall back flat on the bed. Steve then shifts so he slips free - Billy hisses in the emptiness, the dull discomfort of it - and folds Billy’s legs down, twisting his hips gently to the side to make room for himself momentarily, before settling back between them and moving further into his space. Billy grunts as Steve maneuvers his legs over his shoulders. His hands graze Billy’s thighs and settle on the mattress.

Like this, their faces are barely an inch apart. When Billy stares down between them to watch Steve guide himself back inside, their foreheads press together. 

He feels dizzy this close. Billy’s so out of his element. This whole thing has been a bad idea packaged under shimmery wrappings and topped with a bow. As submissive as he’s physically allowed himself to be, swept up in the current of fever and feeling, he’s still fighting internally with what coherency he has left.

The sound of their bodies meeting is obscene, uncomfortably wet. Billy’s a leaky faucet -- he might be getting dehydrated. How many times has he come? It’s more than the fingers he has to count on and still, he doesn’t feel satisfied. The soreness in his body only comes from the overuse of his cunt and overstimulation on his dick. 

He still hasn’t itched the scratch right yet.

No one’s touching his dick but the closeness of their bodies has Steve’s pubic bone grinding into it. It’s a prickly, overbearing kind of pleasure, and it’s gradually taken longer and longer for him to come the more he has, with or without someone rubbing him, but he still shudders in glee when Steve grinds into him for a few seconds before pulling back again. His toes curl and his stomach swoops.

He knows Steve’s going to come. His movements always get a little jerky and uncoordinated and his groans mix with his heavy breaths when he’s teetering on the edge. It’s perfect timing, really.

Billy tries to stave his release off. His greediness is winning out again. He wants to taste Steve’s mouth and the salt collected in the sandpaper five o’clock shadow above his lip. The insistence of his fat knot starting to bulge and stretch him further just isn’t enough of a balm.

He tilts his chin enough to fill the minimal space left between them. At first it’s more a smear of their mouths than an actual kiss. Steve stops moving completely as he comprehends it. Instead of rearing back or turning away, he responds with a thundering rumble in his chest, fulling pressing their mouths together.

Billy can’t help it. Euphoria swells and rises in his gut. His eyes squeeze shut and he scrambles to grip onto any part of Steve, finding his lean wrists and digging his nails into them, to ground himself. He whines, loud and long and desperate, and bites into Steve’s bottom lip as he comes. 

“ _Fuck_!”

He just starts to tighten when Steve joins him. He gasps and tilts and their noses knock together. Steve humps into him desperately, and Billy can feel the stretch of his knot as it grows, sharply tugging inside. The last few times, this was when Steve would pull out and grip himself, leaving Billy feeling empty and trying to hold the mess in himself.

Instead, it grows and stretches him, has him choking on air - Steve’s already _big_ but this is something completely different and he can hardly _breathe_ \- and a whole new wave of warmth floods out inside of him.

Billy’s still coming. If there was any space for him to, he’d be squirting.

The coil at his center binds itself tight and then slackens, then tightens again as Steve pumps into him with little stutters of his hips. He pants hotly against Billy’s cheek. It’s just a continual roll of pleasure, tenfold what he’s been experiencing since Steve started touching him, and he can’t step on the breaks.

“Fuck, _fuck_ ,” Billy swears again, fully swept in the tide and drowning.

☆

At some point, it stops. He doesn’t know if it’s so strong he passes out, or he numbs out until it wavers and ends. Either way, he’s completely knocked on his ass. Even more floppy limbed and now completely incoherent. At least before, even in the midst of getting fucked and coming for the sixth, seventh, eighth going on god-knows-what time, in his head he could _kind of_ piece things together and maintain an internal stream of monologue -- now it’s like there’s a walnut rattling around in his skull. 

All he can register now is this full body tingle -- he’s wholly alight with weightlessness. It’s something akin to a _really_ good high minus that third-eye open-feeling. He’s untethered to the ground, floating through space. 

His eyes are open and unfocused. All he catches is blurs of golden light, a blurry outline of peach and brown and lavender overhead. The cotton-fluff in his ears has been replaced with this clogged up feeling, like palms cupping his ears to block out thunder and shouting and plates breaking. Whatever Steve’s saying - or whoever it is lying over him, he’s not even _sure_ anymore - sounds miles off. The words have lost all shape, fuzzy and formless.

Billy feels a shift, a sharp tug between his legs that has him whimpering in discomfort, and then he’s being carefully hoisted and shifted. He finds himself slightly reclined and laying on his stomach, pressed close to something warm. He’s still too out of it to tell exactly what right now, but it feels soft and smells comforting, and there are blurry indents of small dark marks sprinkled across it. He doesn’t question anything -- he dozes once again, lets himself rest and snuggle into it and its calming, crisp scent hiding under a familiar smokiness.

Eventually Billy stirs again, seemingly not much later than when he closed his eyes last. The light trailing in is far dimmer but it’s still there. He can see and hear a little better, too, and he’s able to start comprehending his surroundings again -- like the fact he’s been dozing on Steve Harrington’s _chest_ , nuzzled into the crook of his neck.

One of Steve’s hands is wrapped around his shoulders while the other cradles him low on his back. They’re reclined against a pile of pillows Billy had constructed earlier so they’re half sitting up. He’s more so sitting in Steve’s lap and laying on him than flattening him down. One of his hands is laying limply at his side while the other is splayed on Steve’s sternum, resting over a creeping patch of downy, dark hair -- he’s too afraid to move it now he’s noticed.

The dredges of heat have taken the backseat for now at least. He’s still a little warm, a little sore - now just in more places and more satisfyingly so - but some of the fuzzed edges have started to dissipate. Doesn’t feel so stoned off his ass or desperate to be fucked he can’t think straight. Can hear and see a little better. 

He’s still in the first act of his cycle and really just resting through an intermission; even with getting what he wanted - needed? - he has another day or two of this. Maybe even longer because his heat hasn’t come in so long.

Under him, Steve grumbles wordlessly and noses his temple. He adjusts his hold on Billy. His grip slackens just slightly.

“You up?” he asks groggily.

Billy freezes. Almost doesn’t reply. It was hard enough imagining Steve showing up in the first place, and then when he did, being so willing to help on top of having such a solid stroke game _and_ decent stamina with a partner in heat, _then_ taking Billy’s willingness to surrender in stride, treating him like precious cargo as opposed to a hole to fuck and be done with it.

For a moment he’s afraid if he says something it’ll break the spell and he’ll have to abandon these selfish indulgences. Will blame them solely on the heat - as opposed to them just breaking down his barriers and allowing himself to openly show he _wanted_ all this without shame - while he scrambles out of Steve’s grasp and kicks him out of his nest to save face, or Steve realizes that this was a big mistake and storms out, half dressed.

Instead he nods, almost meekly. Steve rubs his nose into Billy’s temple again. 

“I know it’s probably not gonna feel great, but my knot’s gone down and I kinda need to,” he makes a noise by clicking his tongue and Billy’s cheeks warm, “so I can actually get it up again later.”

Billy blinks stupidly. “What?” His voice sounds rough, unused. Pitched lower than normal. He cranes his neck to eye Steve carefully. “You’re staying?”

Steve’s cheeks also darken. The color reminds Billy of the geraniums his mother used to grow in the backyard -- fiery red.

“I mean, unless you’re good now? I think it’s kinda rude to just _leave_ in the middle of things, but that’s just me, so -”

“No,” Billy snaps, but it’s not sharp, rather whiney and more tired sounding, “don’t. Not yet.”

He pinches Steve’s hip when he giggles, making him yelp. 

“Be _nice_ to me, Hargrove,” Steve swats him gently on one cheek, “I drove _all_ the way out here after work to help you out, knotted you, _and_ planned to stay til you were completely done? I was even gonna make us sandwiches or something before next round, too.”

It makes Billy’s chest contract in a way he’s not used to. Steve’s still holding him. He hides himself back in the crook of his neck and breathes in, feeling far too seen. 

“Alright, alright, I’ll be nice,” he murmurs. He strokes his hand through the brown hair sprouting across Steve’s chest, absent last fall, making them change direction like wind blowing through grass. “I guess I’m not opposed to you staying, if you want. Or getting your knot again. Or you making me a sandwich.”

After a few more minutes basking in their temporary afterglow, Steve carefully lays Billy out on his back again and gently eases himself out. The mess that comes after makes both of them burn crimson. Billy tucks his own pillow between his legs, trying not to add more mess to the already destroyed sheets, and jabs Steve in the hip so he’ll make a move and _go to the goddamn kitchen already, pretty boy_. 

Steve awkwardly excuses himself, pushing himself out of the bed onto shaky legs. Before he leaves though, he lingers in the now open doorway, naked as the day he was born and cast in the final traces of a burning sunset. There’s something fond and foreign sparkling in his eyes that Billy’s never seen before.

He waits. Squeezes his thighs together, rocks back and forth. Snorts when he hears clattering followed by a series of swears coming from the kitchen.

This partial clarity is only temporary, he knows. He’s gonna have to call Hop before too long to try and convince him to garner the balls to ask Mrs. Byers if he can crash on her sofa - or whatever she’s willing to sacrifice - instead of sleeping at the station tonight. He’s also going to need to freshen up, replenish himself, as well as adjust his nest so it’s back to adequate standards before the clouds roll back in and his temperature spikes again.

But he’s not worried about it -- the next part. Or whether this’ll be another day, or two, or five. The fear of being alone going through this, of getting bad enough to slip prematurely, all of the anxieties he’d bottled up upon his realization -- they’ve abandoned him. Even his embarrassment over his neediness and his willingness to submit and receive, is washed away.

Billy doesn’t know what will happen to them after this. If this is a misstep in the right direction, this might open the door to something he never imagined himself being allowed to have. Or, on a less positive note, this was a lapse in judgement, possibly a mistake, and afterwards they’ll go back to how things were before, and he’ll look back on this time with a sense of melancholy and heartache of what could have been.

Either way, he’s not positive.

For now though, he’ll take each second he has with Steve, whether he’s gone from his mind and getting fucked back to coherency, or lazing in the afterglow with Steve pressed along his back, the contours of their bodies slotting together perfectly, in stride.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! find me elsewhere (ao3 is still being finicky with me linking rip):
> 
> \- tumblr @ sparkleeye  
> \- main twitter @ sparkly_eye  
> \- nsfw art/content twitter @ gentlechokehold


End file.
